


When You Were Young.

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Series: Of Spitfires & Love Songs. [8]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad coping mechanisms, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recovery, References to previous relationships, Swearing, mentions of drug use, references to internalised homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-08 22:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12874308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: Two works, based on the same song, from different points of view and in the same universe.Work 1: He Talks Like A Gentleman.Work 2: Waiting On Some Beautiful Boy.





	1. He Talks Like A Gentleman.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying out something a little different. Sorry for any errors, I'm having to post this from my phone as I'm away in Germany rn! Enjoy x (kudos and comments are much appreciated, it would also be good to know if at the end of this you like the idea of having two works based on the same song covering different perspectives)

_He doesn't look a thing like Jesus,_   
_But he talks like a gentleman,_   
_Like you imagined when you were young._

 

Farrier's not exactly the beautiful woman Collins' mother always told him he'd meet one day. He's not the wife he'd always imagined himself with. He's certainly no saint, either. Collins had realised that the moment he met the man, something small yet so blatant in his eyes. Some sort of hidden lining to the way he spoke and acted.

He can be loud and aggressive, a broad hunched figure sticking out from the crowd like a sore thumb. But at the same time, he's quiet and gentle, an almost intimidating intelligence lurking beneath his tattooed skin. Farrier is a contradiction, and Collins can't help but love that with a rawness that scares him sometimes.

The snark never goes away though. Whether he be talking back to one of their superiors, or commenting on how incoherent Collins' accent becomes when Farrier fucks him properly.

Farrier had crashed his way into Collins' life in a flaming spitfire, but had danced his way into his heart with soft touches and endearments whispered eloquently into his ears in the dead of night. And Collins had allowed himself to be swept along by it. Face flushing at Farrier's words, kissing him for the first time one cloudy night when he hadn't known what to say, because it was unspeakable.

(And that was both because if anyone overheard them, their lives as they knew them would be over. But also because that's how it was meant to be, wasn't it? Collins _should_ be horrified by the things he desires. But when Farrier takes his chin _oh so gently_ , and kisses him with a passion that makes him ache for something more, it's difficult for his actions to feel anything other than _right_ ).

It's entertaining, in a way, to watch Farrier switch from this short tempered, lone wolf out on the tarmac, to a gentle, mild-mannered man, who seemed entirely blind to the risks they were undertaking. To the jeopardy they put themselves in every time they kissed, every time they slipped into a quiet spot somewhere out of sight and talked about everything and nothing.

Though, to Collins' great relief, the rough edges do never really wear away, never get absorbed into the other Farrier, the one who's unafraid to show Collins exactly how he feels. It's a part of him, and the blonde couldn't care less about Farrier manhandling him every now and again, so long as he doesn't give him too many suspicious bruises, or stop him from getting throughly fucked then he doesn't care.

Maybe, at heart Farrier is exactly who he thought he'd end up with one day. Someone who makes him laugh and has hidden quirks that Collins works tirelessly to discover and observe. (Farrier has an odd fixation with language, always discovering new words. And when he exhausts a language, he moves onto the next. The brunette has on several occasions slipped into French while fucking Collins senseless. And had even learnt Gaelic as some kind of token for the blonde).

Someone Collins can confide in. Someone Collins thinks of whenever he hits too close a shave during a flight.

_Someone he can make something with._

Though he is rough around the edges, and comes from a world entirely alien to Collins, he's somehow the only familiar thing in a monstrous sea of unknowns.

Collins tells Farrier as much one evening, the brunette taking his time leaving marks on Collins' inner thighs which will be a pain in the morning; the blonde couldn't care less, however. It comes out far less gracefully and eloquently as he imagines Farrier could have made it sound. Though, he blames this on the fact that Farrier chooses now to start opening him up with suddenly slick fingers.

The brunette makes it clear he's listening though, one of his hands clasped in Collins' squeezing reassuringly, the fingers between the blonde's legs stopping their movements, but staying there nonetheless. It's a jumble of words, really. Made even more incoherent and alien by Collins' broken voice - _Farrier's fault_ \- and the sudden thickness of his accent - _also Farrier's fault_ \- though it seems to get the point across well enough.

Farrier goes silent, but the warmth of his hand in his is a reassurance that he's not overstepped some invisible line. That he's not fucked this up like he does most things. And for a moment, Collins isn't sure why Farrier is faltering so much with his words - they've established by this late stage how they feel about each other, and Farrier had expressed this in a speech that makes Collins' pathetic litany of random phrases seem paltry - so he pulls Farrier up and then down, their noses brushing against each other, sharing breath.

Idly, he imagines what his mother might think of him if she saw him now. A grown man in his arms and bruises littered across his pale skin; he sighs instead of entertaining that thought any longer. Farrier murmurs words to him in what he thinks is French, but he can't be entirely sure. It sounds more like an amalgamation of different languages, words picked at random and thrown in beside each other.

But whatever it is that Farrier's saying - and Collins has _no fucking clue_ what that is - the emotion of it transfers perfectly. His eyes gone soft and face transparent, allowing Collins to read everything there and to eliminate the chance of a misunderstanding.

And maybe this should be some grand moment, maybe time should slow to a screeching halt and they should gaze into each other's eyes for an eternity.

But that's not an option, because if they drag this out too long, they maximise their chances of getting caught - younger officers are always snooping on their elders such as Farrier, attempting to dig up any dirt they can - and to be honest, they don't need to do any of that.

They know where they stand, they've been through it all time and time again and though Collins may sometimes wonder how this happened, how he ended up in an older man's arms, how he ended up here; he always knows that Farrier loves him.

_The only familiar thing in a monstrous sea of unknowns._

No words are spoken. Farrier instead expresses himself with low growls and a tight grip on Collins' hips as he fucks him. While the blonde returns in kind, biting down hard enough to draw blood to try and keep himself quiet, frustration growing as more breathy groans break through the barrier.

And when all is said and done, the patrol has been around and the lights are out; Collins is curled up in Farrier's bunk instead of in his own, he has a realisation.

That yes, Farrier is no beautiful woman, he is no saint and has a history he tries so desperately to avoid. But he's a gentleman, and Collins loves him.

So.

**_Fuck it._ **


	2. Waiting On Some Beautiful Boy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farrier's POV, set before Collins'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you enjoyed this down in the comments (this ended up far more like an actual story than I was anticipating lmao, I'm not too sure, let me know what you think!)

_You sit there in your heartache,_   
_Waiting on some beautiful boy to,_   
_To save you from your old ways._

Farrier spends the first few months on base keeping himself to himself. He gets his own room - officer's perk - and he spends more time fixing broken engines than he does actually flying. He's no fool though, everyone knows that a war is brewing, they know the who and the why, now they just need to discover the when. Then of course, Hitler invades Poland and that's just a touch too far, so they're suddenly thrown into a war that depletes the RAF's ranks faster than those within it can replenish it.

Farrier pays the prospect of imminent death no mind, and stocks up on whiskey.

One Autumn day he receives a letter from his previous base, and the moment he sees who it's from his eye gives an involuntary twitch, and he feels as though he's about to throw up. But he has a reputation to uphold around here, losing his perceived stoicism would not end well for him. So he slips the letter into his jacket pocket like there was nothing wrong, like having it near his body doesn't repulse him on a level that is difficult to express. Later though, in the isolation of his room, he drinks himself into a stupor and sets the thing alight, its contents making him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the fact that the bastard had the nerve to write to him.

Angry at _**fucking everything**_.

Collins shows up not long after that. October is ticking over into November, an increasing chill in the air; pilots grounded far more often than usual due to increasingly bad weather. Farrier is blind drunk - _again_ \- but no one seems to have noticed, either that or they just don't care. An odd haze has fallen over the base, everyone trudging along exhaustedly, the empty chairs in the rec rooms becoming a constant, somber reminder of what is happening, of the fact that they're losing someone near enough every day now.

So no one notices because everyone else is doing the exact same thing. It takes the edge off, makes everything a little less raw and real. Makes it a little less painful when they return to base at the end of the day, and there's one more empty chair in the mess.

Collins sticks out from the rest of his group, seeming genuinely interested in what their ancient instructor is saying. He's far different physically too, unusually lanky and young for a pilot; he looks more like an army private than anything else, fresh out of school. Farrier's not overly optimistic about the boy's - because that's all he is, _really_ \- chances out against the Germans. So he downs a glass of whiskey that night, falling asleep thinking of that floppy blonde hair and those wide smart eyes. Of how they might look when they see fire surging towards them. How his clean shaven face might contort in fear as the sound of his own engine exploding fills his ears.

How that heavy accent might sound as he screams for his mother, plummeting uncontrollably towards the ground.

The next time he sees Collins, he's sober - those days are getting rarer and rarer, though whiskey and beer are better than cocaine and heroin - and the blonde's lip is swollen and bleeding, knuckles bandaged and left eye a deep shade of purple. Farrier then notes a man on the opposite side of the room, one of his arms in a sling and a bandage covering most of his face. Farrier snorts, and decides to join the blonde at his empty table.

"What'd he do?" The brunette asks around a mouthful of bland food. Collins smiles - wincing at the pull on his wound - and crosses his legs, eyes looking Farrier up and down in a way that makes him uneasy.   
"Stuck his fat nose in my shit." Collins replies, and Farrier can't help but bark a small laugh, enjoying this moment far more than he feels is safe. _He's not him_ , a small voice in his head whispers weakly.

 _He could be one day_ , another screams.

"Got his grubby fingers all over my books, then had the nerve to steal my whiskey." Collins continues, glancing down at his food tray for a moment, before sliding it away with a grimace. Farrier nods.   
"I assume you attempted a peaceful, diplomatic resolution first?" Farrier asks, mouth spewing uncontrollably.   
"Aye, of course. Bugger wouldn't listen to me though, so I thought I'd give teach him a lesson." Farrier smirks, and is about to continue their conversation when his name is called from the doorway.

He stands with a sigh, doesn't listen to anything his superior says to him, climbs into his plane and kills four Germans.

His association with Collins continues like this for a while. The pair finding each other during lunch or out on the Tarmac, chatting idly for a few moments before one of them is pulled away by a frantic messenger.

He's not sure how to feel when Collins is assigned as his wingman. Because yes, now he can stop the blonde from doing anything mind numbingly stupid - he has, on _several_ occasions, returned with half a wing missing - and yes, he no longer has to listen to him rant on about his previous partner, who was, for all intents and purposes, a bit of a knob it would seem. But he's now forced to face the fear of losing him every day they fly.

It was horrific enough imagining Collins' plane getting shot down; being faced with having to watch it every day is too much for him to handle.

Farrier moves Collins into the spare bunk in his room not long after that. Using the guise of ' _getting to know each other_ ' for their superiors. While he tells Collins that he's doing it so he can get away from the crowded barracks, give him a bit of peace, let him rest safe in the knowledge that his things are all safe and untouched. To Farrier, both are true, and yet also neither. Life is far too contradictory, he decides. The blonde accepts this with an enthusiasm and gratitude that makes him seem like a giddy child at Christmas, like this is the first kind thing a person has ever done for him.

_It hits him like a freight train that his assumption may well be correct._

They fall into bed together for the first time not long after that. It's Christmas Eve, they've not lost anyone recently and they're both pleasantly buzzed from a few glasses of whiskey in the mess. Collins kisses him cautiously, as though afraid of the outcome, afraid of Farrier. The brunette murmurs something to him in French, and kisses him breathless.

Collins is a virgin, that much is clear. But he's a quick study, and the little noises he makes when Farrier finally fucks him make it worth it, all breathy, bitten off moans and little whimpers, trying desperately to remain quiet, but simultaneously wanting to just let it go. Farrier wakes first the next morning, and spends an hour studying the purple blotches he's left scattered across Collins' neck and chest.

By New Years, the war pulls into full swing and they're running more missions than they can keep up with, missing more sleep than they can catch up with and losing more men than they can replace. Farrier returns to base in a flaming spitfire three times in as many weeks, and Collins rides him mercilessly every time once they're back in their quarters, growling to him in Gaelic and leaving painful bruises across his entire body.

And though he may not realise it at first, he falls back into his old routine. Drinking himself into oblivion on the days he doesn't have to fly - and sometimes even on the days he does - getting himself into trouble and smoking like a chimney in the corner of the aircraft hangars. It takes Collins and his understanding eyes and strong words to pull him out of it. Speaking to him in a manner far too even for Farrier's drunken mind, plying the brunette with water and hiding all his alcohol.

 _Saving him from himself,_ he realises, with a tone of bitterness.

The blonde doesn't share his bed for an entire month, and Farrier spends the cold, lonely nights staring across the distance, filled with self-loathing over his lack of control. By the time January shifts to February, he's had enough. So he stops trying to find where Collins has stashed the booze, stops sneaking to the barracks to steal the other men's drink, stops being such a gloomy arse.

Collins returns to his arms the day before he receives another letter from his old base, the name on the front making him less angry than he felt before when he feels Collins' eyes on him. Their overwhelming understanding and openness no longer making him uneasy, but now a subtle comfort that he can't do without.

He doesn't look at it again until they're alone together that night, the pair of them sitting on the floor together, leaning against Farrier's bed, sharing body heat. Collins - in true, unabashed fashion - takes the letter from his hands, analysing it for a moment before handing it back.   
" _He_ made you like this, didn't he?" It's not really a question, though, and Farrier just nods silently, unable to look the blonde in the eye. " _What did he do to you?_ "

Farrier is silent for a long moment, but Collins' hand on his is a reassurance, a much needed silencer to the chaotic hysteria inside his mind. "He lied," Farrier murmurs, the words physically painful to say. "He lied, and it broke something in me." He looks up, expecting to see amusement. But instead Collins' eyes are filled with an understanding that makes him curious, makes him want to know who preceded him, who made Collins so understanding to his uncontrollable habits and vices.

 _Who made them mirrors of each other._  

Collins considers their environment for a moment before standing, grabbing the ashtray and pushing a lighter into Farrier's hands, looking at him expectantly. For a moment, he doesn't know how to react, because maybe he should read the letter, maybe it's important, maybe it might give him some sort of closure.

_Maybe he might even get an apology._

Then he looks at Collins, who's looking up at him through long eyelashes, shadows cast across his bare face. And Farrier realises there's nothing more important to him anymore.

_Nothing more important than this beautiful boy who'd saved him from himself._

So he sets the ashtray down on the floor, folding the envelope in half and pressing it into it. He takes a deep breath as he flicks the lighter, the tiny flame hesitating before leaping across and consuming the thick paper. He nudges the smoking pile across towards the door, and pulls Collins into his lap, and down into a kiss. They remain enveloped in each other until the flames are long dead, and all that's left is ash and a hint of smoke in the air.

Farrier thanks Collins in every language he knows, before laying him out on their bunk. Fucking him long and slow, pressing words of love into his skin.

 _He's not him_ , that same voice says again, _he's not him, it's okay_.

_You love him._

_And he loves you._


End file.
